


I. C.A.M.E. B.A.C.K. F.O.R. Y.O.U. I came back.

by wawrthur



Series: Orange Kisses [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dresden Dolls - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, richard siken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:50:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wawrthur/pseuds/wawrthur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’m sorry I came to your party, and seduced you, and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing.<br/>You want a better story. <i>Who wouldn’t?</i> - Richard Siken</p>
            </blockquote>





	I. C.A.M.E. B.A.C.K. F.O.R. Y.O.U. I came back.

**Author's Note:**

> \- The ["Coin-Operated Boy"](http://www.dresdendolls.com/downloads_n_lyrics/lyrics/coinoperatedboy.htm) is a reference to a song by "The Dresden Dolls".  
> \- Cybermen were people once. They were. Now they've had all their humanity taken away. That's a living brain jammed inside a cybernetic body, with a heart of steel. All emotions removed. Why no emotion? Because it hurts.  
> \- "Brokeback Mountain" is a film I've never seen due to lots of angst. So I don't know if it takes place in Texas, really. Sorry about that. I'll just be Howard Wolowitz here and say "Howdy!"  
> \- Written for you who wanted a sequel! Here it comes. Hope it mends your hearts, just a little :) I write in haste; excuse each blunder ;)  
> \- Here comes the fun, here comes the end (c) Deftones  
> \- Oh, and one last thing: the tale about war is a reference to a book "0%" by Frank Rouse. I find it (the tale) terrifying and fascinating at the same time.  
> [Here at my LJ](http://wawrthur.livejournal.com/844.html)

**I**  is for the itch.

Maddening, hardy manageable. You restrain yourself, you kill the urges. So simple: to dial his number,

“Hello, my sweet Merlin",

and have him all to yourself. To stop this impossible buzz under your skin. **I**  is for ivory of his fingers, for his blessed ignorance of what he is capable of doing to your brain, your pulse, your stomach.  **I**  is for

“I’m sorry. Please let me come back.”

  
  
 **C**  is for “coin-operated boy”.

  _All the other real ones, that I destroy, cannot hold a candle to my new boy and I'll_ never _let him go and I'll never be_ alone _. Not with my coin-operated boy. He is just a toy_.

 He was supposed to be only that. A-Coin-Operated-Boy. You wind him, he comes to life. You play with him, you are satisfied. You put him back onto the shelf. When  _the fuck_  did he become more than that?

 _So_  much more.  
  


 **A**  is for apathy.

You wake up, you go to work, you eat, you go to the gym, you pick up some lad, you fuck him into the mattress, kick him out, fall asleep, then wake up, take a shower, go to work, scrambling not to snap, not to smash the keyboard into your full wall window, call your Father an antichrist who’ll burn in  _hell_  for raising you into  _this_ , catch the next flight to Texas and become a gay heart-broken cowboy.

And now you are making references to “Brokeback Mountain”.

Arthur, you are pathetic.  
  


 **M**  is for... _Merlin_. 

“My Merlin."

Sweet, beautiful Merlin. Always so gentle, so sure. Always writhing on your fingers, always wanting  _more_. “More of you, more of this, please,  _please_ , Arthur,  _more_ ”.

You chuckle to cover up how breathless this makes you. You are always laughing in his hair, because he makes you happy, so happy. You never laugh this carefree with anyone else. You never truly laugh these days at all.

He is panting and moaning, and you bite at his throat to swallow the sounds, and then you mark him, because he’s _yours, only yours_ , no one has the right to make him feel like you do.

He is so,  _so_  hard, just for you, always  _for you_ , and it makes you smile, it makes you say

“My sweet boy” - such a nonsense! - and  _yes_ , he is, he  _is_. Yours.

Merlin is a natural high.

You love teasing him for hours, playing the “ _How Many Times Can Arthur Make Merlin Come In One Night_ ” game, playing “ _Merlin Can’t Take It Any More But Still Wants_ ” game.

Playing “ _Merlin Is A Just Another Guy_ ” game, but this one is just for you.

And when you wake up to a cold bed and a “ _Sorry! Work to do, world to conquer :)_ ” note, feeling instantly irritated, you know you suck at this little game of yours. 

  
 **E**  is for the End.

You did it. You stopped the hurricane, which was threatening to take over your life. Gold star for you.

Well done, Arthur.

Good boy, Arthur.

Go and hang yourself with your tie, Arthur. 

Men who’ve been to war tell stories about people they had killed. How, after you shoot someone, you go and see where did the bullet hit, so next time you could be more accurate. How they saw the eyes of a dead man: blue, forever lightless eyes. How they still, after twenty years, every  _sodding_ night see different dreams, with different men in them, only the eyes are always the same. So blue, so transparent and blank.

You see him every night. How he was hurt. How he was holding back tears when you turned out to be a massive bastard. Those very blue, very wide eyes. They make you breathless. You are afraid you might die in your sleep, forget how to breath.

You need him. You need him.  
  
  
 **B**  is for, god damn it, “Brokeback Mountain”.

You watch it almost every night. You can’t get rid of the terror and the guilt.

The terror being you, the brainless idiot, cutting out the only bright spot from your life.

The guilt being you, the arrogant prick, not valuing the wonder you can have.

The wonder being Merlin, the stupid idiot, promising you not to come back.  
  


 **A**  is for ache.

Your heart is deliberately trying to murder you. Considering you have a heart, that is. You really are not sure.

This morning your wrists started to hurt. You took the day off.

You spent it watching “Brokeback Mountain” and taking aspirin every hour. By evening, you were so knackered on painkillers you could hardly walk.

Only they didn’t kill the pain.

Your life is a lie. Not as if it’s a revelation.   
  


 **C**  is for crap.

That’s what your life is.

Or this particular realm.

Or just this Universe.

Maybe in some other dimension, you are a nice little llama, and all your worries consist of “Will there be enough grass for me to feast on” and “That Merlin llama is definitely flirting with me, I wonder if we could maybe mate some time”. 

After realising what exactly you are thinking of, you decide to ease off the scotch and try to be productive. And change the wallpaper of llamas on your computer to something else.

Oh, this photo of falcon looks rather beautiful. It doesn’t make your life less crap, though.

Maybe you should reconsider that Texas plan.

  
 **K**  is for Kiss. Kisses.

Merlin  _loved_  kissing.

You bet a thousand quid, he’d spend at least six hours out of ten you had at night just licking, sucking, biting -  _devouring_  your mouth, if it weren’t for your course of actions. (“ _Come on, Merlin, that’s enough, let’s get you naked, yeah?_ ”).

He used to bring  _baskets_  full of oranges, and watch you eating them, and forbid you from licking up the juice, running down your chin, doing it himself instead.

You don’t really like oranges that much. You had a suspicion you were going to turn ginger (inspecting your hair every morning in the mirror), but Merlin’s kisses...

It was worth it. 

First he would slowly run his tongue along your lower lip. Then the upper one. Then lap at the corners of your mouth, making soft noises of pleasure. He would drag his plush lips up your chin only to meet yours again, dry, chaste kisses following his breath. He would open your mouth slowly, always so  _painfully slowly_ , lick your teeth with his pink teasing tongue, and smile. Your breath was treacherously erratic by that point, and it made you feel vulnerable, made you grip his hips, dig your nails in his lower back and try to speed this up.

Only  _Merlin_ , the great tosser, would snatch up your hands, hold them tight behind your back, and grin, and prolong the _torture_.

Pushing that tongue between your lips, further, caressing, lavishing, sucking, moaning, sucking again, then biting and licking, groaning, driving you completely _insane_  with desire.

Rocking his hips on your lap, grinding down harder, then panting in your ear, biting the earlobe, gripping your wrists tighter.

And then coming back for your mouth, violent now, his kisses all messy and hot and wanting, gasping “Arthur, Arthur, oh _Arthur_ ” against your cherry-red lips, his eyes shut, and bloody  _whining_ , and sometimes, sometimes you ended up throwing Merlin on the bed, holding him in place, ripping his clothes off and  _kissing_ , kissing him back, jerking him off at the same time, and Merlin looked so wrecked and wonderful, chanting your name. Arching, coming, screaming. Sometimes, you felt so happy that second, you could burst.

All of the time.

  
  
  
 **F**  is for fucking.

With random strangers. Making sure they are  _loving_ it, making sure they’ll want you again, - never mind that you won’t bother, that it's just for the sake of your ego - making sure you’re saying Brandon or Brian or Bloomsberry Fucking Publishing, just not “Merlin,  _Merlin_ , my sweet, my good boy,  _Merlin_ ”, and not being able to prevent soundlessly mouthing into someone’s skin “ _My Merlin_ ” when reaching the point of the blissful release. You hate them so much. They are not Merlin.

Why would you need all these people, if none of them is him anyway?  
  


 **O**  is for Over.

Everything.

Everything is doomed, there is the End of the World coming up, zombie apocalypse, global warming, psycho asteroids.

And you are going to die, being a jerk, being a total brainless imbecile loathsome loser.

You are going to die, Merlin-less.

You decide it’s time to start swallowing.

The first thing has to be your pride.  
  


 **R**  is for repair. 

“Merlin?” he did answer the phone. That’s something.

“Uh.” Merlin clears his throat, and then there’s silence.  
  
  
  
  
 **Y**  is for “Yours”.

“I am yours, Merlin, yes,  _yes_ , you can have me, I won’t stop you now.  _Please don’t stop_ , oh please don’t stop, Merlin, Merlin,  _Merlin_ ”

His lips are burgundy red from kissing, his eyes are red-rimmed from crying. He’s stroking your cock, peppering your face, jaw, neck with kisses, leaving salty wetness all over your skin, and you are petting his hair, lacing your fingers through dark fluffy strands, listening to

“You are  _mine_ , Arthur, you are never going anywhere again”

and his uneven breathing, an aftermath of sobbing. 

You come, staring into his wide blue eyes, shiny with tears.

You take his face in your hands and kiss his eyelids, his tear flecked eyelashes, his cheekbones, hot with emotions.

You kiss his nose and he smiles - just a little, a sweet private sign of content, and you kiss his smile.

He sighs, lays his head on your bare chest, listening to your heartbeat, and laughs when it speeds up as Merlin calls you “ _My_  Arthur”.  
  


 **O**  is for “Oh look, there’s Morgana!”

She’s grinning at Merlin (or at your entwined fingers, more likely), and when he goes to buy yet another of those ridiculous beverages they call “coffee” -  with tons of sugary syrup and whipped cream with a cherry to top it off - “ _Seriously, Merlin, it is_ not a coffee” - she starts calling you names, and pinching your arm, and accusing you of being conspirative and --

“-- a bad brother who doesn’t call his sister to prove to her he is not an actual Cyberman in disguise and now has a boyfriend, _a nice amicable boyfriend for almost a month!_ ”

And you smile, because Merlin is  _your boyfriend_ , and you frown because pinching actually _hurts_ , and you promptly tell her it’s none of her business that  _yes_ , Merlin is, in fact, very nice and wonderful and beautiful and there is nothing wrong with him just because he’s decided to stay with you for  _more than a month already_  and she absolutely should write this down in her Witch’s Book and stop harassing them. 

 _Them_. 

Plural.

You smile wide and take a big gulp of the sugary coffee thingy Merlin brings back, under his suspicious gaze.

  
 **U**  is for ultimate.

Ultimate happiness, ultimate joy, ultimate belonging.

Arthur to Merlin.

Merlin to Arthur.

It makes sense, even when nothing else does. Especially Merlin’s weird habit: crossing fingers when promising you something, like “ _Won’t mark you where everyone can see it_ ” or “ _Swear to stop buying tons of oranges_ ”, or “ _Yes, Arthur, I’ll stop calling you at 3 in the morning to say I miss you. You have my word_ ”

You asked him once about it.

He said, it was for luck.

Just in case.


End file.
